by Ponzo, Gary
“Ask me what kind of day I’m having?” Nick said.
Matt ignored the rhetorical question.
“Go ahead,” Nick urged. “Ask me what kind of day I’m having.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “What kind of day are you having?”
“Don’t ask.”
Matt shoved him, toppling him over. Nick lay there staring up at the ceiling, welcoming the respite. He wouldn’t tell Matt about his headaches, or the anxiety attack he was about to have. He thought about what Dr. Morgan told him about the effect stress could have on him. His breathing became quick and short. His head throbbed with an unfamiliar condition that probably only existed in some esoteric textbook with a picture of a German psychologist on the cover. His miserable descent into the abyss was interrupted by an authoritative voice.
“You two wouldn’t be Bracco and McColm, would you?”
Nick remained supine and rubbed his temples. He let Matt do the introductions while he regained what little composure he had left. He heard a man suggest that they’d had an eventful trip to the desert. Matt sounded casual until Nick heard a second man say, “Looks like your partner here might need a little help. You want us to make a call?”
Matt said, “No, no, he’s fine. He just needed a little rest, that’s all.”
Nick felt Matt tugging his arm upward. He got to his feet and shook hands with four men wearing blue FBI windbreakers. They looked at him carefully, like they were in the produce aisle inspecting fruit for damages.
They looked relieved when Nick said, “We’re working on East Coast time, so it’s practically time for breakfast.”
* * *
The six men exited the airport in a heavily tinted van. Nick and Matt sat in the middle bench seat of the van with two Vegas agents in front of them, two in back. The driver, Jim Evans, held the seniority of the group. “I got a call a couple of hours ago from that informant of yours,” Evans gave Nick a quick glance. “He gave us the license plate of the limo that took your brother. Turns out the limo was supposed to go home with the driver last night, only the driver lent it to a friend. A friend that the driver doesn’t know all that well, but he gets an envelope with twenty hundred-dollar bills inside, so he hands over the keys. I mean the regular driver’s only a kid, maybe twenty-one tops. So we paid him a visit.”
An agent in the backseat said, “You should have seen the look on the kid’s face when we show up waving FBI badges. He nearly vomited on us.”
“Yeah, well, he’s still living with his mother,” Evans continued. “So we sit down and the kid told us everything.”
“Except maybe which side of the mattress he hides his Playboy magazines,” the voice from the backseat again.
Nick leaned toward Evans, “What did you find out?”
“That’s some informant you’ve got there back in Baltimore,” Evans said. “With extremely long-range connections. Who is he?”
“He’s an old informant from my days with the Baltimore PD.”
“What about the kid?” Matt shifted the conversation back into focus.
“Long story short, we found the limo,” Evans said.
Matt slapped his knee, “Finally, something goes right.”
“It’s parked in front of a house in a residential area,” Evans said.
“It’s in front of a house?” Matt said.
“We’ve got a SWAT team and a couple of sharpshooters already in position.”
A new voice behind Nick said, “Do you really believe that Kemel Kharrazi is, uh . . .”
Nick turned to see a young man, clean-cut, no more than twenty-three, with wide, inquisitive eyes.
“What’s your name?” Nick asked.
“Jake Henson.”
“How long you been with the Bureau, Jake?”
“Six months,” Jake answered, sitting painfully upright.
“What do you know about Kemel Kharrazi?”
There was a pause, then Jake said, “Well, I know that he’s forty-two and received a journalism degree from Georgetown. His father owns the largest construction company in Turkey. He has two teenage sons, Isal and Shaquir. He’s had his hand in the bombing of the US Embassy in Jordan and American Airlines flight 650, to mention just a couple. And there’s a twenty-million-dollar reward for any information leading to his arrest.”
Nick was impressed until he saw the blue-green glow across Jake’s face and realized he was holding a small handheld computer.
Matt twisted in his seat, stuck a piece of gum in his mouth, and pointed at the young man. “That’s pretty good. You get that Dr. Skin website on there? You know the one with all of the naked celebrities.”
Jake’s face became grave. “This is official FBI merchandise. I can’t use it for personal use.”
Matt looked at the older agent sitting next to Jake. “Is he for real?”
“Are you kidding me?” the agent said. “He thinks watching a woman eat a banana is considered cheating on your wife.”
“Jake,” Matt said, “you ever meet a fugitive on the List?”
“No, sir, this would be my first.”
Evans pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Jake and said, “The kid’s done a good job. He digs into that tiny machine and finds out that there’s only been one house sold in the nearby vicinity in the past six months. Guess which house?”
Jake beamed.
“That’s right,” Evans said. “The very house that limo sits in front of was sold to a businessman just four months ago. His name is Kalil Reed.”
Nick and Matt exchanged glances.
“Anyway, Jake runs the name into the computer and comes up with an alias for Mr. Reed. Anyone care to guess whose name comes up?”
Evans looked into his rearview mirror at the two agents, anxious for one of them to respond.
Jake couldn’t hold it. “Abdullah Amin Shah!” he exclaimed. “He owns the house.”
Nick could see Matt about to get sarcastic, so he grabbed Matt’s arm and gave him a look.
“Come on,” Jake said. “Surely you know who Abdullah Amin Shah is? He works for Kemel Kharrazi.”
“We know,” Matt said. “I think you’ll find some of his blood on my pant leg.”
Nick turned to Jake. “Without the mechanical cheat sheet, how much do you really know about Kharrazi?”
Jake shrugged, “I’ve heard all the stories. You know, the CIA agent’s head sent to his home, the story about him slaughtering children in the streets of Ankara because they didn’t know his name. He killed his own mother for betraying him. After a while, you wonder whether they’re just urban legends.”
Nick rubbed the stubble growing on the side of his face. “I used to wonder the same thing myself.”
“But you know it’s all real, don’t you, Agent Bracco?”
Nick sighed. “You don’t have to worry. You won’t be setting eyes on Kemel Kharrazi tonight.”
“Why do you say that?”
Nick took a breath. He was tired, he needed a shave, he was hungry, and most of all, he wished he could turn off his brain. Just long enough to relax and make believe it was going to be all right. His brother was alive—he had to hang on to that thought.
“Sir?” Jake said. “Why won’t we see him?”
“Because,” Nick said, “when you’re dealing with terrorists, coincidences are dangerous.”
Nick could tell by the silence that his message had fallen short of its target. He added, “When you find a square peg on the ground and a few feet away you find a perfectly square hole to put it in, it’s time to look over your shoulder. Nothing is ever that easy, especially when you’re dealing with someone like Kharrazi.”
Jim Evans peered through the rearview mirror and said, “You think this is a wild goose chase?”
Nick could sense a schism developing between the two branches. Vegas dealt mostly with racketeering and organized crime. The majority of their criminals engaged in murder, extortion, bribery—spontaneous acts that lacked the planning required
to escape detection. An evidence-collector’s dream world, Las Vegas. But Nick and Matt’s world revolved around one thing—terrorists. A type of criminal who planned attacks eons before they were enacted. There were many cases where a terrorist would spend years infiltrating a community. They’d teach in schools, run grocery stores, repair cars. Then one day the word comes and it’s time to act. Few could prepare for that kind of operative. Nick knew he needed everyone on the same page if he was going to find Phil.
Nick said, “Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”
This brought more silence. He could hear Matt sigh.
“Napoleon,” Matt said.
“Exactly,” Nick said. “Let’s hope this limo thing is their mistake.”
It was nearly 2 AM when the van rolled to a stop behind a second nondescript van. The agents exited into the cool night air and followed Evans to the forward van. The door slid open and exposed a man and a woman wearing headphones. The woman held an index finger to her lips. “They’re on the phone,” she whispered. “My Kurdish is a little rusty.”
Nick asked Evans where the house was. Evans pointed down the narrow street. “It’s around the corner. They can’t see us from here, but we own the perimeter.” He tapped the radio clipped to his shirt. “We’re in contact with Hostage Rescue. Twenty of them. When the time comes, we’ll be ready.”
The woman lowered her headphones. “I keep hearing the same casual conversation.”
A faint ringing sound caused Nick to walk away from the van and push a button on his secure phone. “Bracco,” he answered.
“I just got word about the airport incident,” Walt Jackson said in a half-yawn. “I caught a nap here in the office, but the coffee’s flowing now. You two okay?”
“We’re fine. We found the limo in a residential area and we’re intercepting phone messages from the house. The conversations are in Kurdish. The deed is under the name of Kalil Reed.” Nick looked back at the two vans. Even in the dark, Matt stuck out among the Vegas agents. And not just because of his height. “I don’t like it, Walt.”
“Too much good luck, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“All right, Kharrazi’s giving us until 9 AM Eastern time to release Rashid, which gives you about four hours. We’re pretty sure they’re still in Nevada. We’re able to trace the calls to somewhere in the state, that’s all.” Jackson paused, as if searching for the proper words. “Nick, I spoke with Phil. He sounded worn down. In exchange for the conversation, I’m having Rashid moved to a less secure site for the time being. You know we can’t release him, but the minute Kharrazi knows, Phil will be expendable. I’m buying as much time as I can.”
“Thanks.”
“One other thing. I’m adding a new security system to your house and I’m having Julie tagged. We have to be prepared. At least until this is over.”
“I knew you would. Appreciate it. We’ll be in touch.”
Nick made eye contact with his partner and Matt hustled over to him.
“What’s up?” Matt said.
“What do you make of all this?” Nick asked.
“It’s a setup,” Matt said, like he was answering a simple third grade math equation.
Nick nodded. “If you were Kharrazi, would you set up a decoy on the other side of town, as far away as possible? Or would you want to keep the law within viewing distance?”
Matt thought about the question. “This wasn’t done on a whim. I’d say he’s on the opposite end of town, as far away as possible.”
“You’re probably right,” Nick said. He looked over Matt’s shoulder at a neighbor approaching the van. An older man wearing blue jeans and a robe. “We could have every law enforcement officer in the state canvass the city and come up empty. What would we look for? They’re not going to have a neon sign out front saying, ‘terrorists inside.’”
The neighbor was nodding as Jim Evans explained the nature of the impromptu command post. The neighbor seemed satisfied with the answers he was getting.
The man passed Nick and Matt as he headed back to his front door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Nick said. “You’re wondering what’s going on?”
“Yeah, the guy over there explained everything,” the man said. “You’re searching for some kind of kidnapper. You think he might be in our neighborhood.”
“That’s right,” Matt said. “Have you noticed anything suspicious lately, even mildly peculiar?”
“I can’t say that I have,” the man said.
Nick was about to let him go when he thought of something. “There hasn’t been many houses sold in the area, has there?
“Not really.”
“What about visitors? Are there any homeowners in the neighborhood who leave during the summer and rent the place out?”
The man’s eyes perked up. He began to point at a house directly across the street and Nick slapped his arm down before he could get it halfway up. The man looked perplexed.
“Please don’t point,” Nick said. “Just tell me.”
“The Johnsons have a son who lives in Montana,” the man was straining not to look at the house. “They go up there every summer and don’t usually get home until after Thanksgiving. This is the first year I remember them ever renting the place out. I understand they got paid handsomely. Ol’ Norm couldn’t keep from grinning when he told me about how they were approached to rent it. And how the guy told him he’d pay him cash up front, because he was so excited about moving to Las Vegas and needed a place to stay until his home was built. Nice guy, too. I don’t see him very often, but he always smiles and waves to everyone. They seem like a nice family.”
“Family?” Nick asked.
“Yeah, well, I guess I haven’t actually met his wife, but he’s shown me pictures. She’s back in Jersey with the kids.”
“Does he have dark hair, dark complexion?”
“Sure. I can’t remember his name, though.”
“He ever have any company? Other men visiting?”
The man shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”
Nick patted the man on his upper arm, dismissing him. “You’ve been a great help. Thanks.”
“You think that guy renting the Johnson’s place is a criminal?” the man asked.
“No,” Matt said. “He doesn’t fit the description. The guy we’re looking for is fair-skinned and blond.”
“Oh,” the man said. Then he smiled and wagged his finger at the agents, “You guys are good. Asking me if he was dark-haired, when all along your man is blond. You guys know all the angles.”
The man shook his head and mumbled with short bursts of laughter all the way back to his house.
Instinctively, the two agents turned their backs to the Johnson house. Nick pointed down the block toward the limo house for effect.
“We can’t tell Evans and the crew about the rental,” Nick said. “We keep everyone focused down the street, the way it’s supposed to look.”
Matt agreed. They returned to the van where the female agent was screwing her face into a knot trying to decipher the phone calls she’d been tapping.
Matt tugged on Jake’s arm. “You have a parabolic with you?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jake said, “but they’ve got one aimed at the place already. You need another one?”
“Yeah,” Matt said, “Nick and I are going to take a stroll around the neighborhood and see what we can pick up.”
Jake shrugged, entered the second van and returned with the small, funnel-shaped parabolic microphone. “Here you go.”
Nick told Evans not to move until he and Matt returned, no matter what they heard in the house. Nick and Matt walked toward the limo house, then after they were out of range, they turned right and away from the house, down a side street. They doubled back toward the Johnson rental using a parallel street behind the house. Under the bright moon of the desert sky, they were careful to work within the shadows of shrubs and palm trees. When Matt peeked past a
property line wall, he pulled his head back like a frightened turtle.
“It’s right there,” he said. “Give me the mike.”
Without exposing anything but his left hand, Nick crouched, pointed the cone toward the house and placed the miniature headset over his ears. At first he heard loud static, the rustling of trees, the sound of a car’s engine in the distance. He twisted a knob on top of the cone, adjusting its focus, narrowing its beam to the Johnsons’ house. He heard a man’s voice speaking a foreign language. Nick was fluent in Kurdish, Russian, and Spanish, and got along all right with several other Latin-based languages. His eyes widened when he heard an authoritative voice speaking Kurdish say, “Where is Bracco? I lost him.”
“Forget him,” another voice said. “He went to the other house.”
Nick went rigid when he heard, “Kill the brother and get out of here.”
Chapter 8
Hasan Bozlak peeled away the rug and yanked up on the trap door. He peered down into the dark tunnel. A simple string of lights illuminated the passageway. Working behind drawn curtains, Hasan was assigned four workers, mechanical drilling devices, and instructions on how to build the escape route. Twice a week the dirt was hauled from the backyard by a truck with a pool logo on its doors. A gate in the tall fence slid open and closed abruptly with each departure.
The American government had its law officers surrounding the decoy house while Hasan prepared to lead his team of Kurdish workers through the tunnel to a house on a street directly behind them. It was only sixty feet to the garage where a car was waiting to take them to Kharrazi.
He directed two of the men into the tunnel and was waiting for the final member of the team to execute the prisoner when he heard the strangest sound. The doorbell rang.
The two men in the tunnel also heard the doorbell. The three of them swung their automatic weapons from the strap on their shoulders and assumed an attack position. Hasan held an index finger to his lips and motioned for the men to spread out. He peeked out from the side of a curtain. Standing at the front door as casual as if he were delivering flowers, was Nick Bracco. Bracco didn’t appear to be expecting trouble. His hands were empty and loose at his side. Maybe the FBI was canvassing the area?
